


gods and monsters

by meios



Series: kinktober 2017 / goretober 2017 [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Dirty Talk, Kinktober 2017, Knife Play, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: they'll revere kylo ren as a god.





	gods and monsters

**Author's Note:**

> more kinktober. (i know i'm really far behind.)
> 
> day 4: knife play / begging

The edge of the blade toys with the fragility of his skin, leaving red marks trailing behind, but never cutting the skin, only on the edge of pleasure-pain. Goosebumps dot inked flesh, dark hairs standing up straight as soldiers; the wooden headboard creaks from where he grips it, almost splintering in response to the tease. Sweat pools in the dimples of his hips, near his navel, the Adam’s apple of his neck. He wants, whines, and the man with the knife hushes him with soft words, softer touches of his fingers.

 

Both of them are naked to a degree, the man with the knife shirtless while the other is as a babe, and the shirtless man smiles with edges like his body and like the shock of red on his head. He is slender, all bird-bones, and Hux whispers, “Patience, Kylo, darling,” with no real emotion and everything is tension in his words like his body.

 

Kylo exhaled slowly, frustration brimming like water filling a tub, and he’s half-hard between his legs, already interested and everything in this situation is high strung and angry like the red marks on his skin. “Just cut me so you can _fuck_ me, babe,” he says. Kylo flexes the muscles in his arms, gripping the headboard tighter. “Don’t you want to?”

 

“Of course I do,” Hux immediately replies, “but God, if you could see what I’m seeing right now, you would want to take your time, too.”

 

Kylo doesn’t respond, only looks at the way Hux’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek, the way the sharp flush spans out and over his cheekbones, dusting over his nose. He’s beautiful, and something in Kylo’s chest embiggens until it feels like too much. He releases the headboard, reaches for Hux, warm hands on warm cheeks; Hux is guided to Kylo, lips meeting lips, a hum reverberating through the both of them.

 

Sweet, strangely so. Hux’s blade cuts a line into the tattoo on Kylo’s stomach, sacred geometry and all. The red that seeps out is nothing like the gasp that permeates their kiss, and when they part, Hux is smiling. “The trust you must have in me,” he whispers, a prayer and another cut, dragging along the lines of the pictures on Kylo’s body. Careful, precise like a surgeon, enough to bleed but not enough to _pierce_ , to endanger. “I’m the only one who gets to do this, the only one who gets to see you like this. Arms back up, Kylo. I want to see everything.”

 

Kylo obeys, nodding all the while. He toys with the stud in his lower lip, his teeth clacking against the metal.

 

Hux straddles him, careful of the blood now bubbling up to the surface. He licks the blade, cleaning it, before setting back to work. “Tomorrow, you’ll get on that stage and take your shirt off and everyone will know what was done to you. What _I_ did to you.” Leaning down, Hux cuts along the jut of collarbones he finds, sets his mouth to it, sucking and marking, licking, drinking. Kylo shudders, a light moan escaping the confines of his throat. “We’ll play our music and they’ll write their little articles and they’ll speculate all they want,” he continues, switching to the other side, creating a matching mark, “and they’ll write their little stories on line and jerk off to the thought of us and you,” Hux rises up, Kylo’s blood trickling down his chin; his eyes are dark and full of terrors, “you will be a god to them.”

 

More cuts, quicker now, each one punctuated by a strangled noise from Kylo’s very guts, and the towel beneath them must be soaked now, both by plasma and sweat, and Kylo trembles when Hux stands to shed his own pants, to straddle his legs, cutting closer and closer to his erection.

 

He’ll write a song about this. God, he’ll write a song about this, and he’ll do anything Hux wants, he promises, says this aloud as a warm cavern of a mouth engulfs him, blood like a lube and like an afterthought, a taste he doesn’t know, and he is a living wound unlike any other, and he will worship his own god with a finality like stage lights and like encores.

 

When he comes, it’s a gunshot: he doesn’t expect it, nor does he apologize for it. Hux swallows him down, sucks harder until Kylo is crying, hypersensitive. He pulls back and pushes up, kisses him, shares the taste of Kylo’s own self, blood and semen, and he whispers into his mouth, “You’ll sing the song of _us_ , darling. Tomorrow, they’ll know just how deep we go.”


End file.
